Hunters and shields of the fleet
by NCR Ranger
Summary: Destroyers are the backbone of a navy, and the UNSC isn't an exception. They've taken the brunt of enemy assaults for centuries, and dished back out everything said enemies threw at them. As a newly constitued wolfpack of them prepares to head for the front of the UNSC's ever ongoing battles, that legacy goes with them
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The Battle of Yarmouk was fought between the Byzantine Empire, and the Arabian Islamic Rashidun Caliphate from August 15th, to the 20th, 636, near the Syrian Yarmouk river. The Arabs won, forcing the Bynantines out of the region and securing it for themselves. The Arab commander, Khalid Ibn Al-Walid, proved himself to be an exceptional tactician, and would go on to be one of the finest military leaders history has ever known.**

* * *

August 14th, 2556.

UNSC Admiral Cole Orbital Naval Marshalling Yard, Earth orbit

* * *

" Attention ! Captain on deck ! "

The shouted alert cracked like a whip through the modestly sized, and previously quiet, bridge of the Halbred class destroyer UNSC ' _Yarmouk_ '. Occupied by a dozen enlisted men and women, and a handfull of officers, and linded and packed with blinking, glimmering banks of equipment, a destroyer's bridge was still one of the more open areas aboard.

And one where the vessel's skipper was most likely to be.

Sailors wh o'd been previoulsy seated or standing dilligently at their posts, working at their tap-interface consoles and monitoring readouts, or even taking a brief moment to read corespondence from home, all at once leapt up from their deck chairs ( or at least within seconds of each other ) , and crashed to a good form of attention. Hands snapped up to the sides of heads in rigid salutes. Backs were straightened.

Such behavior wouldn't have happened if the _Yarmouk_ had been in a combat zone, or in transit to one, but she was neither right now. The destroyer, her Titanium-AEW ( Augmented Engery Weapons ) plating still gleaming and spotless, untouched by Covenant plasma or Innsurectionist explosives, was fresh out of the SinoVet shipyards, and even fresher out of her shakedown and proving cruises. Her formal comissioning and commencement of serving in the UNSC Navy was still at the front of everyone's recent memory, and some of the them, only half jokingly, said the vessel " had that new- ship odor ".

That seemed to be about to change. Still within the confines of the naval defense perimeter, _Yarmouk's_ crew had mustered aboard from their shore quarters, on rather short notice to boot. There were no specifics among the orders they'd been given, but as they crowded aboard, what was running through the mind's of just about everyone was:

 _They're sending us into action. They are ! **Finally**._

 _This is what we signed up for. We want to test that we've earned our place in the fleet._

Nobody was _fearful_ , but they were all defintely tense and apprehensive, to varying degrees. These sailors were all well aware of the capacity of their enemies.

The Innsurectionists, for example, were known to exsercise near-fanatical levels of zeal in a fight, not unlikely to ram their vessels into a UNSC one, rather than be destoyed outright, or be captured. They would use the kind of tactics that the UNSC had used against the Covenant; detonating their own reactors to take an enemy vessel out with them, or even launching boarding parties against ( again ) smaller UNSC warships, seeking to place small charges on their reactors, or take control of their bridges. They were diehard extremists, or at least the ones who were persistently fighting the UNSC.

The, though, there was their other major enemy. The one that was much more dangerous.

The Covenant.

The alien juggernaut had done thier utmost to _eraditcate the entire human race,_ by burning the surface of dozens of colonies using white hot plasma, slagging cities by the hundreds, killing millions and millions of hapless colonists. More of that plasma had been just as lethal when directed against targets in space, and when the Navy valiantly fought back against those Covenant death fleets procecuting their ' war ' ( though, really, it was a genocide as far as Humanity saw it, hardly a war as they considered ), hundreds of their vessels were melted through and destroyed.

Left as nothing but dust in space.

The bulk of those lost vessels had been the lighter ones.

Frigates. Corvettes.

 _Destroyers._

The workhorses of the Navy. Screening the bigger ships, scouting around where sensors and LADAR couldn't reach, and inadvertently ( mostly ) getting used as meatshields against the fearsome Covenant plasma torpedoes and cannon salvos, absorbing it to give the cruisers and battleships a better chance to land meaningfull shots. It didn't always buy victory, but it always bleed the enemy, which was often the best that could be done.

Many of those lost little ships were crewed by the same kind of sailors who were now aboard the _Yarmouk._

Rookies.

They- the ship, and her crew, were all rookies. Disciplined and able, judging by their reaction to their captain's arrival, but rookies nonetheless. If they were to have any chance against their foes out on in the galaxy, they would need someone who wasn't. The crew of the Yarmouk wasn't eager to die, of course, but they were eager to be able to do what their precescesors had done: face down an enemy of the UNSC and Humanity. They wanted to do their bit, so to speak, as full fledged members of the Human armed forces.

To do that, though, they would need a commander who could lead them to not just survial, but victory. Which, as during the Covenant genocide, could be the same thing.

Said on deck captain, was exactly so.

" As you were ", he replied formally, with a slow, smooth nod, surveying the assembled crewmembers with a slight back and forth turn of his head.

Captain Yusuf Rustam had that way about him; 6ft of an Eypgtian, he believed to have decended directly from the Mamluk warriors of the 1200's. With dark hair cut down to a bristle length, a goatee, and a trimmed mustache that ran down to join it, he cut a dashing figure, espeically in his ash-shaded command unifrom, decorated with gold epulets on the shoulders, and the twin steel-shaded bars of his captain's rank affixed to his chest, shortly under his collar.

( On a private level, some of the female bridge crew harbored some attraction to him )

The crew had all seen him before; at the formal comissioning , when the Navy granted him command, he'd stood alongside the Admirals of the brass, with the Yarmouk's crew arrayed before them. Throughout most of it, though, he'd spoken little, aside from the Oath of command and leadership all UNSC shipmasters took prior to stepping onto their vessels for the first time as its active commander.

All the sailors of the _Yarmouk,_ though, had still been impressed by who would be thier leader. He stood tall ( height wise, and otherwise ), had a composed, intelligent expression, and moved with vigor and purpose. He spoke with a strong voice, a Middle Eastern accent, and didn't talk without _saying_ things, so to speak. As far they could tell, he wasn't just an officer.

He was a leader. Somehow, they had, for the large part, confidence that he would prove himself to be an able commander when battle came.

So, when he strode onto the bridge this day, when they were here because they'd been ordered to preapre to set sail, seemed to say that chance was imminent.

Jebura strode to the center of the bridge, deck shoes clacking , where his command chair was located. The bridge crew remained standing, aware their skipper was about to tell them something.

They were right. Jebura had a natural command presence, and it didn't fail them.

" Listen well, gentlemen. And ladies. What all of you suspect is true: We're headed into action, today. "

A ripple went through the room; the crew could psyically sense it.

They were right, all along. Jebura let that sink in for a moment, then continued, adressing all of them:

" We, and the rest of our fellow destroyers of Skirmish Flotilla 19, are to be sentries and pickets for a UNSC groud assault, well within the borders of the Outer Colonies. This is a region of our empire that was badly scarred by the Covenant, and was also a hotbed for the Innsurectionists. Before, during, and after the aliens sought to kill us all. Even now, remnants of both groups contine to operate there. "

Fanatical zealots. Basically, both the Innsurectionists and the Covenant could be classed as such. Some of the sailors nearly glanced at each other, to gauge each other's reaction, but didn't. The skipper was talking, so they'd wait.

Moreover, now it seemed clearer why he hadn't spoken much during the comissioning ceremony. He'd wanted to speak to them as thier leader, not as someone who was up in such a high profile scenario as the launch of a new warship. This wasn't so much a speech, really, but it was more of a briefing as well. He was hitting two quails with one stone.

" Destroyers have done this for centuries, even long before Humanity reached the stars. You will carry that on, and if what I've seen from you tells me anything, you will fulfill your obligations to the UNSC, and the Navy, to your utmost. I must do the same, let that be clear as day. "

He _did_ have confidence in them, then. Afew mouths turned up in slight grins, but still, everyone waited for him to finish.

" Fair warning, however: This ship _will_ be in harm's way, because it is a _fighting_ ship. If that is not what you wanted, then you should've joined the Army. "

Chests puffed out at that, and more slight grins appeared. This _is_ what they wanted. There was a special creed to the whole essence of being on a destroyer: You'd go to seek out the enemy, and take him on. Hard, rough, and close in. That's what a destroyer _did_.

That's what its crew did.

" Am I understood ? ", he queried, unclasping his hands, which had been behind his back, and resting them on the back of his command chair.

Every man and woman on the bridge at once responded, with the only thing they could say:

" Sir, yes sir ! "

It was loud, sharp, and in sync. Very good, and an encouraging sign for a new crew. Not a overly gung ho group, but with real enthusiasm for thier work, and a strong grasp on discipline.

They hailed from all backgrounds- ' rich kids ' from affluent Reach famlies, and more ' sweat of your brows ' clans from the agrarian worlds like Harvest. They were blondes, redheads, brunettes. Some of them were loud and boisterous by nature, others were solitary and reserved. They were a mosaic of personalities, and most had thier own person demons to deal with, and their own baggage.

But, all of them were united. They were UNSC Navy, as it should be: dedicated, well drilled, and fond of their careers. Last but not least, they had a commander they could respect, not just becasue they were obligated to.

All that remained, was for him to take them into action. If anyone did actually have doubts on that front, they didn't voice them.

Captain Rustam was quiet for second or two, absorbing their affirmation. The expression on his face, and the look in his eyes, was that of someone who reflected the mood of his audience, but also was different.

His own confidence was real. Not ravado, but confidence. If it was real, they'd notice, and that would do wonders.

" Very well. Then, let us be about it. All hands, to your posts ! Prepare for imminent slipspace travel, and may our Creator be with us all ".

" **Hoo-yah**! "

The age-old UNSC navy rallying cry was shouted from every one of their throats. Passionate, strong, and energized.

Like they were.

With quick, deliberate movements, the bridge crew sprang into action, retaking thier positions at thier posts, and delving into the routines of prepping the vessel to move out.

" Mr MacJacobs, bring us to Alert Status. Its time we mobilized "

His second in command was a like minded individual; bold, agressive in command, and confident and measued when it came to how he conducted himself. He did have a temper, but fortuentely, that seemed to be reserved for those who actually deserved it

And, he could use that to drive the crew on, backing up the skipper's commands, even though they didn't need them. It did not hurt, though.

" Aye aye, sir ! The lads and ladies have been waiting for that ! "

Rustam's Executive Officer, a redheaded, burly Scotsman with sideburns named Clifton MacJacobs, who'd been standing nearest him by his own officer's chair located adjesent to his own, issued the order to sound " Alert status ", shipwide. It was one step below ' General quarters ".

 _Bvvm. Bvvvm, Bvvvvmm !_

Klaxons wailed throughout the Yarmouk, as Rustam took his seat at the command chair, gesturing for MacJacobs to do the same. The sublight engines rumbled, and vibrations coursed through the destroyer as she began to get underway.

The orbiatal beth was left behind them, as they eased out into more open space.

" Sir ! ", MacJacobs stated " The _Gaugamela_ , the _Varna_ , and the _Thermopylae_ are formin' up now as we speak. Our wolfpack is ready to be let off the leash ! "

Rustam consulted his TacPad, and yes, its display showed the other destroyers were on the move, leaving thier orbital berths, and powering out, one by one. In minutes, they'd be ready to jump.

" Soon, Mr MacJacobs, soon. When we do, though, remember our heritage ".

Mounted over them, over the entrence to the bridge, was the ship's crest: An Arab- style turban and battle helmet, with a pair of curved bladed crossed in front of it, and a raised spear behind. Set against a green background, the circular crest was ringed by gold embroidery, which was actually Arabic caligraphy, spelling out:

' _Munhak khaliquk alhayat waquat aleaql waljusda. Aistakhdamaha, bihikmat, wamaswuwlia_ '

' _Your Creator has given you life, and strength of mind and body. Use them with wisdom, and responsibility_ '

And, beneath it, was the Latin phrase, the Yarmouk's motto:

' _Actio Tantum audere '_

 _' Only bold action_ '

Two different cultures, yet they were everything the Yarmouk was, everything she had her crew were.

She carried an old name. She was named for one of the great cultures of Earth, and one of its most dynamic battles. Her whole battle group was so named, becasue they were all warships, and thus, the should be named for what what from thier history.

Valorous warriors, and a legacy of rich heritage.

" I will at that. I am a Scot, and it was pleasing to find I'd be on a ship with a name like ours. We'll take her to do great things. "

The navigation officers called out that the Shaw-Fujikawa slipsapce drive was fully prepared.

" Captain ! FTl drive is spun up. We can jump anytime "

MacJacob's proclamtion, and the confidence of Rustam, and that of the whole crew, was about to be sent on a path that would test them all.

And they all hoped and prayed they would not fail each other.

' All wolfpack vessels. Jump now. Jump now "

" Cordinates, Ensgin. Take us there with all speed. "

" Received, sir ! Getting us on our way "

A swirling blue- black vortex opened off the bow, manifesting out of nowhere. The armor plating designed to protect the bridge slid down over the windows, as the low lights of slipspace transit glimmered throught he bridge, bathing it in soft blue light.

Everyone fell silent.

Seconds later, they were off, and away.


	2. Journey to the front

The flotilla of destroyers tunneled its way through slipspace.

A number of years ago, during the harrowing days of Humanity's struggle against the Covenant, Human vessels traversing slipspace were always up against a brick wall when it came to what the Covenant could achieve. The alien vessels traversed slipspace at least twice as fast, and used half as much power to do so. They could quite easily have entire fleets of their ships emerge from slipspace in near-perfect formation.

That _had_ been beyond what the UNSC Navy could achieve, but not anymore. Having now had sufficient time to fully incorporate all the technology they'd 'permanently borrowed ', from both the Covenant and what Forerunner sites they'd uncovered, the Human fleet was now truly on par with any naval force in the Milky Way. It was now not uncommon to have UNSC ships sporting energy shields, in addition to molecular strengthened Titanium armored hulls. The _Infinity_ , that gargantuan new dreadnought recently commissioned into the fleet, was rumored to have main guns that fired particle energy, not MAC slugs.

As advantageous as all that was ( and nobody was complaining, needless to say ),though, it was the improvements to the fleet's slipspace drives that many captains appreciated the most. Now, they could finally cross the immeasurable distances in space without ending up scattered all over the place, and they could reach their destinations in half the time. It changed the whole equation of space based warfare.

Captain Rustam appreciated both.

As his ship thundered on through the space between spaces, surrounded by the milky white glow of starlight getting stretched out into infinity by their FTL speed, the commanding officer of the _Yarmouk_ was in his stateroom.

It was certainly more spacious than than bunk racks that the crew had to sleep in, but even so, as this was aboard a destroyer, it was hardly the same as that on a cruiser, or a dreadnought. Still, it was enough; there was room inside for a sleeping area with a twin bed, which had an actual Arabian style word mounted over it , and a rolled out foam mat with a hanging punching bag. There was a small head as well, complete with a shower. And, of course, there was an office, which was where the doors that led out into the rest of the ship was. The suite was partitioned off by dividing walls, which, along with the ceiling and floor, were all Titanium-A battle plate ( destroyers, being small vessels, needed all the armor they could get ). Its current occupant had done at least something to change that, with the exsecise mat, and a small red and gold rug by his desk.

Rustam stood at his desk.

He preferred to stand while working, which had always confused his fellow officers. The desks of destroyers, of most vessels, to be honest, weren't really designed to be stood at anyway. But, that didn't bother Rustam.

Great commanders, or at least good ones, had to stay alert, and at the ready, at all times. And it was easier to do so while standing. Rustam was egotistical enough to outright call himself ' great ', but he aspired to be, albiet more for the sake of his crew than anything else. If the UNSC ended up pinning a medal on him or two in the processes, fine.

A side effect.

 _Our test will be in our first real battle_

Thinking always of their baptism of fire, Rustam continued working the touchpad keyboard of his computer workstation. Pulled up on the screen, was some of his favorite footage from the UNSC's Military archives:

It was a depiction of the Battle of Cannae. A holographic overlay of the actual battlefield, with the Carthaginian armies in orange, and the Roman armies in bronze.

Every UNSC Naval officer on the ship command pipeline was required to scrutinize the victories and battles of Earth's past, and learn all they could from them. Some officers from the colonies were skeptical and nearly even blase about it, as it was technically Earth's past, not their own. But, others, including Rustam, understood what it represented. They understood that it was a gold mine of knowledge that they couldn't afford not to take advantage of.

Especially epic triumphs like Cannae.

The culmination of a campaign fought over 1,000 years ago, on Earth. Even after all that time, it still stood up as a victory so glorious and complete.

A battle, won by one of _the_ absolute greatest tactical minds the human race had ever known:

Hannibal Barca, of Carthage.

He'd been the Admiral Cole and Captain Keys of his day, utilizing tactics and strategies that his enemies couldn't predict, understand, or copy- at least, not in time to stop him. He had led armies over the Italian Alps mountains, some of the most treacherous terrain on the planet. He'd led them into Italy itself, sweeping aside Roman armies with ease when they moved to stop him, at the Battles of Lake Trasemine, and Trebia.

As he ground his way further into Italy, the desperate and frustrated Romans pulled together their largest army to date- tens upon tens of thousands- and met Hannibal at the plains of Cannae. They were out to stop him, finally _defeat_ him, once and for all.

Carthaginian and Roman troops clashed, and at first, it seemed the Romans were actually _winning._ They rolled back the Carthage troops, viciously carving their way forward. The entire Carthage battle line bowed inward, as it bent under the relentless pressure of the Roman advance.

Except, it was all a trap.

Hannibal had _wanted_ that to happen. It was all part of the plan. As the Romans hacked into his main line, they didn't notice the rest of his troops, the crack African spearmen, approaching from the flanks. They closed in, and fell upon the Romans; now, it was the Romans' turn to get carved and torn into. Chaos reigned in their ranks, which got worse when the Carthage troops of the main line rallied, and counterattacked.

The Roman army was no more after that. Their grand army, slain. It was arguably the worst defeat ever dealt to one of the most powerful empires to ever have existed on Earth.

Dealt by a force that was fat outnumbered by them. Outgunned, so to speak, and yet they had still come out on top. There was no logical way they could've or should've won. Yet, they had.

In some ways, that was like Humanity vs the Covenant.

Yet again, Rustam found himself examining it. Again, and again, he had.

The _Yarmouk_ was speeding toward its first major battle, as he stood here aboard her. He wasn't sure why he'd been revisting the tales and exploits of the greatest generals of the Human race, but he could be sure of one thing:

Preparation was key.

The skipper rested in chin on laced fingers for a handful of moments, gazing at the display of the ancient battle, contemplating everything it could mean.

Finally, he turned away, deciding to exert some force on that punching bag. After all, your mind wasn't your only weapon.

It could always come down to hand to hand.

* * *

 _Yarmouk's_ main hangar bay

0658 am, shipboard time

* * *

 _Thruster status ?_

 _Check._

 _Aileron ?_

 _Check._

 _Troop bay HMG mount ?_

 _Roof escape hatch ?_

 _Check._

 _Chin gun ?_

 _Check_

As soon as the first canvas and wood biplanes had taken flight nearly a millennia ago, right up until now, there'd been one thing that any aviator- especially military ones- worth their salt did:

The pre-flight walkaround.

A vital ritual.

Granted, if the situation called for scrambling, they'd have to rely on the check they did last, but otherwise: That craft you were to fly got examined, from one end to another, top to bottom, nook and cranny. Short of actually disassembling the craft piece by piece, reversing its construction, pilots were obligated to check their craft in every way, to ensure they were ready.

You life, and those of your crew, and the friendly troops on the ground, all counted on you having your craft in perfect, or at least ideal, condition when it was in the air over them. It didn't matter if it was one of the technologically advanced craft Humanity had ever built; some practices were there for a good cause. They'd stayed around, because they were simply logical, and simplicity and logic are two things that have stayed around for many centuries. It was an inseprable part

Warrant Officer Jared Timbrook understood this. He'd always remembered that it was what he'd learned during his days of Naval aviation training at the UNSC Navy's OCS, and it had stuck with him from then to now.

The goateed, freckle-nosed American-born pilot stood before his aerial vehicle: a D-77TC Pelican.

Jade green paint gleaming, the hulking dropship definitely _looked_ ready for action. _New_ , to be exact. It was untested in the field, which may have something to do with how every armor panel, every seam, every square meter of its hull didn't have anything about it that had Timbrook concerned. The manufacturers had done their job very well indeed. He had double-checked that himself.

That, and he had examined its interior systems as well. The cockpit of a Pelican was crammed with an array of all the kinds of sensors and scanners that a spacefaring naval craft would need to do its job. All of them were running glitch free, and smoothly.

By all examinations, the Pelican, which Jared had boldly and eloquently decided to name _' Emerald Queen_ ', was ready to fly and fight. It was primed for combat, against Insurrectionists or Covenant alike.

As soon as the _Yarmouk_ emerged from slipspace, that was. They'd jumped hours ago, ( but still had at least the rest of the day to go, though noboody of the crew knew that ) There wasn't much worse than being on a long trip ( such as a road trip ), and being bored. Fortunately, Pelican crews always had their craft to fuss over.

They wound up loving them. Nobody could understand that's how aviators pretty much were. They'd easily get labeled as " weird ", and " eccentric ", among other things. Not that said pilots generally had it get to them, though.

" Still fussing over your chariot ?, came a female voice, from somewhere off to the right.

" Come now. Its not totaled already; only been a few days in a hangar. A destroyer's hangar, too "

The voice carried an broad, adventurous Australian accent; Jared knew at once who it was. He turned to that direction.

" Camella ", Jared smiled, greeting his wife. " You know me: Someone's got to look after this fine machine. I can't always stay away".

The attractive, vigorous Commonwealth woman was headed for him, smiling. Her tan hair was tied up as per regs, but a few strands had escaped, swaying free around her oval face.

Take away the uniform, replace it with her civilian outfit, and she could easily be back home in Sydney, at that amazing waterfront cafe right by the Harbor Bridge, where they'd first come face to face years ago, at the dawn of their naval careers, while they were both on leave. She always looked right at home no matter what she had on, or where she was.

Including the rather cramped, oil reeking, and gunmetal grey metal plated hangar of a _Halberd_ class destroyer.

" First thing I find when my shift ends, is you, fawning over your bird ", she teased lightly, granting him the pleasure of a quick but heartfelt kiss as she reached him.

The tips of their boots touched, and Jared smiled as he kissed her back.

" Maybe I should've joined the Air Force, instead. Then I wouldn't have to spend all this time crawling over dropships down here ".

" You could, but then you'd be pretty far away from me ".

That was true. They were both, after all, serving in the Naval Aviation branch of the Navy, a career that involved near constant traveling from one station post to another- their current voyage to a distant front-line was proof enough of that. For anyone who was going to keep a relationship in the UNSC alive, having both him and her serving in the same branch was crucial. Of course it was even better if they were fortunate enough to be in the same element of that branch, and ( best of all ), _on the same ship.  
_

Otherwise, it'd be one of those dreadful long distance relationships, and those always ended badly, especially for anyone in the armed forces. If they hadn't both decided to join Naval Aviation ( and been accepted ), then its unlikely they'd have gotten this far. It'd have failed long ago.

One must count your fortunes.

" That is true ", Jared admitted, swiftly kissing her again. They were both still on the clock, so they couldn't take it much further than this. Still, that's what warships were good for, especially one with so many tucked-away corners like a destroyer had.

Plenty of openings to sneak off. For now, though, they reluctantly had to have it wait.

The pair pulled back a bit, and Camella cast an appraising glance over at the waiting Pelican.

" And, what about the ' _Jade Thunder'_ ? You wouldn't be flying her. Speaking of which, how is she ? "

Camella knew her husband well. He loved her first and foremost, of course, but there was a special bond between him, and that Pelican. Pilot, good ones at least, considered their craft to be essentially an extension of their own bodies, and cared for them just that deeply.

Camella understood this. She was, after all, Jared's co-pilot.

Jared couldn't be any more delighted that was how things were, than how he already was. It was hardly standard, the kind of arrangement they had- same branch, same billet, same unit, ship, and even craft-, but that was even more cause to be grateful.

" Great news on that. Just finished my walkaround, and systems checks. They check out across the board. As soon as we get to wherever it is we're supposed to be going, the "

" You know I trust you. But, I'd like to take a look myself. I do have to ride on her as well, you know ".

Jared couldn't fault her for that. Camella had been a good second in command aboard the ' Thunder '; always collected and even under the stresses of being in action. She had a tendency to be a bit reckless when it came to her suggestions on tactics, of course ( being an Aussie, after all ), and sometimes wanted to actually linger in hot zones to keep engaging, but otherwise, she was a excellent fit for the job.

Jared couldn't _tell_ her that, of course. For a woman, she had an ego. Besides, it was more fun this way.

He turned toward the ' Thunder ', hands on hips. Camella stepped up beside him.

Aside from, that, this was a fine way to have the time go by, until they reached the front lines. Then, of course, their abilities and skills would truly be tested.

Until then-

Jared glanced over at her, eyebrow raised.

" All yours. "

With a confident nod, and a slightly bemused smirk, she set off, with Jared in tow.


End file.
